Mosaics.

"I want to live each day for itself like a string of coloured beads, and not kill the present by cutting it up in cruel little snippets to fit some desperate architectural draft for a taj mahal in the future."

Meet Sylvia Plath, who has been my muse since high school.

In times of need I pick up Sylvia Plath, for she would have an uncanny description of what I am going through that I had previously not realized I was going through. She casts a glittery pin on the translucent shifting object in the grey peripheries of my subconscious, and suddenly makes it visible. Though we perhaps differ in that she is depressed, whereas I am optimistically struggling.

My future taj mahal is in architectural limbo land. Perhaps I see a few turrets, a fragment of a window, but not a form in its entirety. I have not decided upon a colour, a shape, or a texture. My fancies flicker from one design to another. At times I see a uniform pattern, at other times I am not so sure.

But oh, I am so good at present moments and short term glories. The question is, will they add up or will they be just a string of mismatched coloured beads in a row?

The showers.

Saturday night at the gym locker-room finds you at a place filled with half-naked women dressing up for a night out. You look around (discreetly, from behind the half-wet hair that you are blowing dry) and wonder whether these girls have any more fat to lose on the treadmill. There was a girl with a bikini-bod strutting out of the shower actually looking happy. Couldn’t blame her, with that body she damn well should be happy. There was a girl squatting while she fumbled with her locker which reminded me of a scene from Striptease. There are rows of compact butts stuck out as their owner’s bend towards the mirror for last minute touch-ups. Other girls, thankfully, are kind enough (or embarrassed enough?) to cover up nicely with a towel.

It was in this fashion I discovered that the gym locker-room, instead of the gym itself, is perhaps what truly motivates you to lose that fat.

Sunday Night

We sat on the cozy wooden chairs on my terrace in the dark, holding cups of steaming black coffee. He needed the caffeine for the drive home from my place. The plants were breathing and a little breeze was playing with them. Sometimes we would talk, and sometimes we would stay silent, just savoring the absence of a necessity to move.

Tomorrow would be another Monday. The start of a week’s worth of occasional 5-minute phone calls and perhaps intermittent emails. A week’s worth of ambition. But on the weekend he watched my entire volley game and I loved that. And we did a bit of shopping at the Ranch Market and I loved that. And I drove his car while he slept in the passenger seat out of exhaustion, and I loved that.

So finally we come to this short little moment on my terrace, stretching out our legs.

“This is great coffee”, he said with a hint of surprise.

“Thanks! … … … Okay, alright, my mum made it”, I confess.

“Yeah… no wonder”, he replied slyly.


And I loved that too.